


One Minute Past

by partingxshot



Series: 3:16 [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: (the last two tags are for chapter 10 only), Angst, Damian Wayne is Robin, Deleted Scenes, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Hallucinations, Honestly most of these you could read without context, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partingxshot/pseuds/partingxshot
Summary: Or: request ficlets and extras set in the universe of 3:16, wherein Dick and Damian slowly learn to be Batman and Robin.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Dick Grayson
Series: 3:16 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021464
Comments: 152
Kudos: 493





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Seeing as 3:16 just hit 1,000 kudos, I requested prompts for ficlets set in that universe [on my tumblr](https://wufflesvetinari.tumblr.com/post/635159761150754816/316-prompt-fics)! I thought it would be a good way to say thank you. These will be quick, casual, and as canon as you want them to be.
> 
>  ~~If you'd like to play along, you can send me an ask over there or leave a comment anywhere else.~~ EDIT: I have plenty of prompts for now!! Thank you!!
> 
> This chapter is for anonymous, who asked for "Dick and Damian playing in the snow."

“Should’ve worn the thermal gear,” Dick says, rubbing briskly at his arms. Not that it does any good: composite armor and kevlar don’t make for great friction-warmth. 

“Tt.” Damian’s hood—pulled up over his head—is sprinkled with snowflakes: the kind that stick and hold. “You clearly need better extreme-weather training.”

“Extreme? Uh, Robin—not to be a harbinger of wintery doom here, but if you think _this_ is cold for Gotham, wait ‘til February.”

They’d started the patrol in a flurry of slush that had quickly cooled to a truly picturesque snow dump, coating the rooftops in a perfect white. Nights like this aren’t the norm in December, but they’re not unheard of, either. Alfred will _certainly_ chide Dick’s lack of preparation when they get home.

If Damian’s too cold, he’s doing a good job hiding it. The boy crouches at the edge of the rooftop, eyes trained on the quiet road below. Streetlights radiate hazy golden light through the flurry.

It’s a quiet night. Still and soft as anything. 

On a whim, Dick crouches down behind Damian. Scoops up snow.

Sharply, the boy says, “Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?” Dick presses the ball tight in his hands.

“Batman, I am armed.”

Dick grins. He smooths the snow into a perfect sphere for good measure. “Temp’s gonna climb again tomorrow, and all of this’ll be gone.”

“Good,” Damian scoffs, finally turning to face him. “The snow only impedes our— _stop it!”_ He dodges the snowball easily, ducking behind an AC unit. “We are on _patrol!”_

Dick angles his next shot over the unit like shooting from the freethrow line. “Target practice,” he says, and lets fly.

He hears the snow _thud_ against the roof. No Damian. 

He barely has time to frown before a soft projectile whizzes past his left ear. Damian darts behind the raised rooftop access door. Another snowball comes for Dick’s head.

“Hey, come on, you’re smaller!” Dick says, trying to scoop snow at a run. “You can’t just hide behind everything!”

“Strategize better next time,” Damian says from behind him.

Dick turns and sees no one. Then he looks up just in time for an armful of snow to fall square in his face. 

Damian lands soon after, tackling Dick down to a rooftop soft in ethereal white.


	2. Chanukah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "the batfam celebrating a festival of lights? Damian lighting a menorah or letting a tealight loose in water? Hanukkah?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to write this one because a). I am also excited for Chanukah with my husband's family and b). DC accidentally making Bruce Jewish is one of my favorite comics facts.

“One does not,” Dick intones, “simply let Alfred make latkes alone on the last night of Chanukah.”

“The very thought!” Stephanie tuts, leaning intently over the cast iron pan. “So you see, Damian, your help here is very important.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Damian scowls. He’s using cheesecloth to squeeze out a clump of shredded potato and onion, getting the next round of ingredients dry enough for crisping. “I have no issue helping Pennyworth with an important meal.”

“Kind of you to say so,” Alfred says from the kitchen table, where he diligently works the box grater. Dick had tried to buy him a food processor more times than he can count, but the old butler is hung up on the classics. 

The smell of potatoes in oil suffuses the penthouse kitchen, sparking daisy chains of memory at the front of Dick’s mind. The first year he’d lived in the manor, Bruce had offered to show him how Chanukah was celebrated—though Dick got the impression that, without an orphan to comfort, Bruce would have let the holiday slide. He didn’t seem to remember most of the traditions.

And yet: the candles were warm against eight midwinter nights that otherwise may have felt cold and empty. They came with a survival story. Dick barely remembers it—something about miraculous oil.

Speaking of oil...

“Steph, you uh—you gonna flip those? I smell burning.”

“Shit,” Stephanie says. “Shit, shit—”

“I told you I should’ve been in charge of the stove,” Damian says calmly, dropping his potato lump on a plate. 

“Uh...Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu,” Dick says slowly, reading off his phone. Stumbling just as Bruce had with the pronunciation. Trying not to feel silly. 

Damian holds the helper candle solemnly in his hand. His face shines golden in the lowlight, his eyes tracing the flower patterns twining up the menorah’s stem. It’s an heirloom from his grandmother, all gold filigree and ornate style.

Stephanie, Babs, and Alfred watch in respectful silence around the table—though Stephanie keeps glancing expectantly toward the elevator door.

“—l’hadlik ner shel Chanukah,” Dick finishes, and nods to Damian.

Damian lets out a breath through pursed lips. Then he carefully lights the menorah’s candles, left to right. The light on his face grows. 

Once Damian’s placed the helper candle in the center holder, Dick claps an appreciative hand on his shoulder. Damian swallows. His eyes look dark and full.

The buzzer by the elevator goes off, so loud in the silence that Dick nearly jumps. He excuses himself and gets up to check.

The security feed shows someone waiting in the lobby of Wayne Tower. Tim looks up at the camera with a nervous smile.

“Hey,” Dick says, a grin breaking across his face. “Why don't you come on up?"


	3. Shopping Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompts:
> 
> tiredlayla: "Dick and Damian in a civilian outing?"
> 
> dawnseternallight: "I’d love to see a scene with the boys out shopping for or setting up something personal for Damian’s room. I keep think about the moments you have Dick wanting to feel like Damian’s spot (like the glow in the dark stars reference)."

“What about that painting?” Dick says, digging for the last chunks of burnt french fry in the bottom of the flimsy container. “You have that really nice painting on your wall. A field at dawn? By your window? We could get you more pictures like that.”

“Not here,” Damian grumbles, eyeing the mall food court with rancor. His disgust only deepens with a sip of his lemonade. “This place is a dying husk of American excess. Why would we find fine art _here?”_

“Okay, point,” Dick says, shrugging toward the Hallmark store and the candle shop beside it. “This isn’t exactly the right venue. We’ll look online later.”

Damian slides his straw in and out of the plastic lid. It makes a sound like a dying gerbil. “Why are we doing this?”

“I’m forcing you to humor my mall-rat nostalgia. Or I guess, because looking for cheap stuff ourselves is more fun than sending Alfred out for luxury goods.”

“I mean,” Damian says, “why are we _doing_ this?”

Dick looks at him again. This time, he sees suspicion outlining Damian’s round face—nerves settling in the shoulders of his grey hoodie. The food court is crowded and colorful and loud.

Dick considers, crushing a fry bit under his thumb. He wipes it onto a napkin patterned with a fast food logo. 

Carefully, he says, “I want you to have your own space. Something that really _feels_ like you.”

Damian scoffs. “Places don’t feel like people.”

Dick opens his mouth to argue, thinking of afternoons in the Bunker with Damian at his side—of late nights with Damian perched on the arm of the sofa, TV lights flickering calm in the smooth dark.

He changes his mind and says, “Humor me. What do you want more of? Art supplies? Books?”

“Combustion s—”

 _“Not_ combustion sabers. Not weapons. You’ve got plenty on your wall already.”

“So perhaps the room feels ‘like me’ after all,” Damian says, leaning back against the plastic chair. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches Dick—a reassuring spark in his eyes. He’s defensive, yes, but he’s willing to banter. Always a good sign.

Dick says, “Come on, you’ve got more going for you than your arsenal.” He shakes off the phantom image of an obsidian knife. “Let’s think bigger. Games? A TV? More space for clothes?”

Damian bites the inside of his cheek, glancing at Dick’s milkshake. He says, “Not for clothes.”

“Okay, something else?”

Damian busies himself shaking crumbs from the sleeve of his hoodie, eyes trailing down. Eventually, he says, “Space for books. A bookcase.”

Dick breathes out slowly, his shoulders relaxing. “Yeah! We can do that. And if there’s anything you want in hard copy—like, that you don’t already have—just say the word.”

Damian nods, sharp and careful. 

Dick grins and puts his unfinished milkshake in the boy’s hands. Damian drinks it willingly, wandering with him from store to store.

They don’t find a bookcase to Damian’s liking, so Alfred will have his work cut out for him after all. Still: Dick convinces Damian to watch him play an arcade game called "Cheese Viking,"and the boy gets so invested in calling out all of Dick's mistakes he forgets to stop grinning.

Then, on their way out, they pass a garden store. A table by the door boasts a wide array of houseplants, exotic and mundane. Damian reaches to the very back row to touch the leaf of a struggling potted plant. His finger slides against its smooth surface, tracing a pattern like a candle flame. 

Dick doubles back to read the label: _calathea._

Its leaves are verdant in the center, but crisping brown at the edges. Could use some TLC. Dick thinks it would look nice on the boy’s bedside table—bathed in window light.

Only if Damian wants it, though. He asks, and waits for the answer.

"I can take care of it," Damian says solemnly. "I think I can make it live."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian painted that picture in his room himself. He's not going to tell Dick for another few months.


	4. Poison (Redux)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If you'd like, for a prompt, i was thinking that it might be interesting to see what chapter 5 poison looked like from damian's point of view? so curious as to what went down there and what exactly dick did in that time frame while he was off the rails, damian is intentionally secretive about it lol"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. _Guys._ This was fun. This has evolved past ficlet and has certainly evolved past fluff. (Sorry! It's early Damian! It's the trauma.)
> 
> If you have the time, I encourage you to re-read [ Chapter 5 ("Poison")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24559306/chapters/59856136#main) because otherwise Dick's half of the conversation's going to be as unintelligible to you as it is to Damian.

**3:16am**

Damian wakes at once and completely, the taste of filtered penthouse air bitter on his tongue. 

He grasps the hilt of his knife. Lies in careful silence, eyes darting from wall to shadowed wall. 

Window: closed. Door: closed. Closet is open, the way he’d left it so that no one would think to hide there. No subtle human smells drift up from under the bed; no intruder trips the creaky floorboard he’d loosened beneath the carpet. 

Safe. 

No—the room is _secure._ Not safe. To entertain safety invites disaster. So Mother taught him.

What had woken him, then? A bird against the window? A change in air pressure?

He hears a _thump_ against the hallway wall. Then footsteps. His breath catches.

Mother had taught him: enemies and options. 

Possible enemies: Grayson, tying a loose end after all. Pennyworth, sent to do the family’s dirty work. Drake, reclaiming his honor. Batman’s foes, here to slaughter everyone. A League coup, finishing Damian off at the same time they attack his mother and grandfather. 

Options: feign sleep as a trap. No—Grayson won’t fall for that again. Hide—cowardly. Leave by window to scale the building—risky. Frontal assault? The only option.

Obsidian knife in hand, Damian surges for the door. He kicks it open and rolls out into the hallway, posture low and defensive.

He sees no one. 

Grayson’s voice from around the corner: “We’re not playing a game, Damian.”

Every hair on Damian’s body stands on end. So that’s how it is, then. A betrayal he saw coming a mile away.

“Do I _know_ that?” he spits, charging forward. “You made me Robin as a game. You toyed with me, you—”

He rounds the corner. Grayson sits in the half-light of the breakfast bar, hands gentle and open on its surface.

“Let me help you,” he says. His voice is hoarse. His eyes, red-ringed and watery, track Damian.

“What is the meaning of this?” Damian says. His grip tightens on the knife.

Grayson’s mouth drops open, his expression empty. Then, just as quickly, his face contorts in horror. His eyes lose focus. 

He slams his hand on the bar. Screams, _“No!”_

Damian flinches. Steps backward. For a moment, Grayson looks like Father: fierce and colossal. Insurmountable. 

“No,” Grayson says, like his heart is breaking. He sways on his seat. “Don’t. It’s not a punishment. It’s not for punishment.”

Damian’s heartbeat quickens. He forces air through his lungs. “What is _wrong_ with you?” 

Grayson mumbles, “When did you...” 

He keels sideways, barely catching himself on the bar instead of crashing to the floor. “I was playing against Damian.”

Damian’s caught off-guard enough to blink—a dangerous prospect. His mind churns.

“You’re compromised,” he says faintly. “Can you hear me? You’re...poisoned, maybe. In an altered state.”

He hears rustling from Pennyworth’s door down the hall, back the way he came. If Grayson is a danger, will he kill the butler first? An easy target. But it’s not Pennyworth that Grayson is speaking to.

Damian tucks his chin. He slides into a fighting stance, knife dancing in the dark.

Grayson pulls himself fully to his feet. His gaze slides around the room before landing on Damian again. 

His expression twists into sudden suspicion. _“Who are you?”_ he growls, stumbling forward. “Who are you _, really?”_

“I’m Robin,” Damian snarls back. “And you’re dead if you take another step.”

Grayson’s face shifts, again, in slow motion: offense to pity. “I—I’m not fighting him. I’m not—Damian should be safe. And happy.” 

Damian swallows. His stomach does an unfamiliar flip. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not fighting him,” Dick says. He coughs, harsh and painful. He takes another step. He trips on the corner of the sofa, then rights himself. 

Barely a threat. Maybe dying.

Absent tears streak his cheeks. 

Damian struggles to breathe normally. “You—you’re not fighting me,” he repeats. He swallows. “You’re saying—how can I—”

“Does he know that?” Grayson says. He stumbles toward Damian, putting only a few feet between them. “Do you?”

Damian shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to charge. He should attack now. 

He should attack now.

He should attack _now._

He should...

...he’s rooted to the spot. Grayson pins him with devastated eyes. Begging.

“I don’t know,” Damian says faintly. “I don’t _know._ I don’t know that you wouldn’t hurt me. How could I possibly know that? How—how could I _decide_ that?”

“I don’t know,” Grayson echoes. The words slur. Like he’s a caricature of the man he should be. Grayson should be weak-minded, but honest. Weak-willed, but kind.

“How can I decide that?” Damian says, choked—a strange ringing in his ears. “Tell me _how.”_

“He’ll hit his head on the furniture,” Pennyworth says from the hallway, making Damian jump. He hadn’t noticed the butler’s entrance. Stupid. Slipping. Expecting _safety_ where there is none.

“Let him fall, then,” he scowls. “Solves the problem.”

“You could lead him out to the balcony,” Pennyworth says. Professional, clean, calm. “He doesn’t have the strength he’d need to jump the railing.”

Damian considers: enemies and options.

Pennyworth would rather save Grayson than hurt Damian. No one else—not the League, Drake, the rogues—are here to kill them. And Grayson—

Grayson repeats, “I don’t _know.”_ He watches Damian with desperate eyes, his hands open at his sides.

Damian says, “Then learn.” He darts to the sliding balcony door; slams it open. Dances through. “What’s your first step?” he calls behind him. “I’ll give you a hint: you have to catch me.”

Grayson follows, weaving, backlit by stars. He reaches out for Damian like he has something important to tell him, his palm open and soft and open—always open. Never closing. Never a fist.

That’s not right. Grayson forms fists to fight Batman’s enemies. But at home he’d never—never _once_ has Grayson _—_

Damian’s next breath comes strange and sharp, lodging in his throat. “You’re an idiot,” he says, and throws the knife away.

Adrenaline surges through him, uncontrolled, sending a tremor through his shoulders and a frightening lightness through his head. He feels small. His clothes feel too big for him. His boots weigh heavy on his feet.

Grayson moves forward, and Damian thinks—for one terrible moment—that he’s made a mistake. Seen safety where there was none.

Then Grayson collapses to his knees at Damian’s feet. Damian moves on instinct, trying to support him under the arms—it doesn’t work. He collapses with him.

“Grayson?” His voice is quick and high. _“Grayson?”_

Then Grayson leans down and kisses Damian’s forehead. Right at the hairline.

Damian stops breathing. The stars shift over his head. 

“I’m not fighting you,” Grayson murmurs. His words are sharper now—clearer. “I’m not playing against you, Damian. I’m sorry if I ever made you think I was.”

In a fit of sudden dizziness, Damian’s hand clenches against Grayson’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Grayson,” he hears himself say. “Pennyworth, I think he’s coming back to himself.”

The butler takes over from there: explaining the situation to Grayson. Pulling him toward the balcony door.

“Wait”—Grayson shakes him off—“Damian, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not,” Damian says immediately. The words burn in his throat. 

“I wouldn’t have hurt you.” Grayson’s eyes are big and blue and honest. “Do you _know_ that? Do you know I wouldn't hurt you?”

The knife gleams from the corner of the balcony. A darkness. A night without stars. It had been a parting gift from his mother.

“I know that,” Damian chokes. He means it. “You were out of your mind and you still never tried to hurt me at all.”


	5. Macramé Bracelets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Damian being persuaded to explore a new (rather improbable) hobby?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a). Colin Wilkes, a very good boy whom I miss, and b). one of the hobbies I restarted over the pandemic.

“Your backpack is full of embroidery floss,” Damian says slowly, as though the words sit inconveniently on his tongue. “Why?”

Colin—a kid Dick had been pleasantly surprised to hear calling Damian his “friend” when he rang the lobby buzzer—dumps his backpack out on the breakfast bar. Enormous tangles of thin, colorful string fall out in clumps.

He says, “Some of the girls at St. Aiden’s were making bracelets. Then the nuns took their stuff away.” His baggy plaid sweater hides most of his shrug. “I stole it back for them.”

“Tt. So why do you still have it?” Damian stands beside the bar rather than sitting down.

Dick, from his own position sprawled on the sofa, recognizes the tightly-controlled body language that means Damian’s entering new territory. The boy’d been like that since he’d learned that his friend (friend? Dick hopes they’re friends) was at the door. Only at Dick’s prodding had he let Colin up to the penthouse.

“I had urgent Abuse business,” Colin says seriously. “Haven’t been home since then. This place was closer, so I figured…” A quick grin escapes him, then falls off again, leaving a face that looks sadder than it started. “Anyway, if you don’t have time—”

“He has time,” Dick says, turning the page of his comic. “You can stay for dinner if you want.”

He feels Damian glaring bullet holes into him, which he’s grown used to ignoring. If the kids don’t get along, he can always be a responsible guardian and kick Colin out later. 

It’s just that the sadness wound into Colin’s features—the intelligence, the mistrust—are familiar territory. Dick knows the type.

Colin shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Well, I gotta be back by five, so—”

“And what would we do until then?” Damian scoffs. “I’m not here to entertain you.”

Colin holds up his wrist. His sleeve falls to reveal a bracelet, patterned green and blue and orange. “The girls made me this. We could try…?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably pretty hard, but—”

“It wouldn’t be _hard,”_ Damian huffs, leaning on the bar—leaning further into the conversation. Dick makes a mental note. “It’s just _popular_ art. It’s crude.”

“Bracelets are popular?”

“Popular means ‘folk art.’ It means ‘low art.’ As in _not worth my time.”_

Colin blows back his bangs—the kid needs a haircut. “Okay, _jeez_ _._ Sometimes I forget you’re such a nerd.”

Dick stifles a laugh. 

Then he sucks on his cheek, considering. He turns another page and says, “I want a bracelet.”

He feels both boys’ gaze land on him, suspicious. 

“Seriously?” Colin looks a bit awed by Dick, now that he’s talking to him directly. Dick wonders how much the kid actually knows.

“Grayson doesn’t really want one,” Damian scowls. “He wants me to _participate.”_

“You’re half-right,” Dick says. “But seriously: a firebreather at Haly’s used to make them. Worked at a summer camp before running off to the circus.” He cranes his head over the back of the sofa, watching Damian upside-down. “Never could figure it out myself. Always wanted one in red and green and yellow.”

Damian wrinkles his nose, watching Dick back. Colin’s gaze darts back and forth between them.

Finally, Damian says, “If you couldn’t figure it out you’re a simpleton. It’s patterned knots. It’s nothing.”

“And I bet you could do it perfectly your first try.”

“Of course.” He hops onto a bar stool, fishing in the tangle of embroidery floss. “Fine. I’ll make _one._ But only to prove it to you.”

Colin’s face lights up before he can hide it, and Dick catches his eyes with a grin.

The boys work through dinner, munching on sandwiches. Dick helps by detangling skeins of string from one another, separating bright from dark and warm from cool.

Colin makes one bracelet: a lumpy but enthusiastic first attempt with browns and reds and a particular orange that matches his hair.

Damian makes two. One disappears into his pocket. The other he throws at Dick’s head: Robin colors, proud and perfect. 

Dick wears it around his ankle until the colors fade to nothing. Until, years gone by, the strings break and it falls peacefully to his bedroom floor.

Then he asks his boy for another.


	6. Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Dick passing on Wayne family traditions. Damian likes Grayson family traditions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I have nothing against Sousa or high school band kids!!!

“See a good spot?” Dick asks, carrying two collapsed lawn chairs beneath his arm. “Bruce always aimed for halfway down the hill, under a tree. And as far away from the porta potties as possible.”

 _“What,”_ Damian says, “is a _porta potty?”_

Dick laughs, the sound swallowed by the orchestra tune-up.

The Fourth of July charity concert in the park is an important Gotham milestone. The city’s most engaged (or neurotic) high schoolers practice Sousa marches until their parents’ ears bleed, then come together for an afternoon of sweltering sun, loud crying children, and all the bland hot dogs you can eat.

“Why did Father _come_ to this?” Damian asks, sitting carefully in his chair. His feet dangle until Dick slides the picnic basket beneath them.

“The Wayne family’s sponsored this shindig for generations. His parents took him, and I think their parents did before that? Think of it like a charity ball.” Dick sees a camera flash from the corner of his eye. He waves stiffly at the reporters. 

“At this point, I would prefer a charity ball,” Damian says tightly. 

A pair of kids run past with squirt guns, screeching. The Sousa begins in earnest: all _oom-pa-pa_ and eager teenage brass.

Damian winces. “The American musical tradition is _—_ ”

“Hard on your poor refined ears, yeah yeah.” Dick settles into his own chair, stretching his legs out over the grass. “Honestly, Bruce kind of hated this concert, but it was tradition. It can be fun if you adjust your expectations. I thought maybe you’d want to try.”

Damian gives him a sly look. “You mean that it would be suspicious if we didn’t come.”

The cameras flash again. One photographer drops to his belly to get a better angle on Bruce Wayne’s children. Dick grins through gritted teeth.

After a moment, he tries, “Sousa’s not bad. Maybe an acquired taste, yeah, but at Haly’s _—_ ”

“What did you do there?” Damian asks suddenly, turning to stare straight out at the stage. “For the holiday. With your parents.”

Damian’s been doing that lately: asking about Dick’s life before Robin. Before Bruce, and the city, and a solemn built-in purpose.

“Not much,” Dick shrugs. “They weren’t really into _—_ oh, I guess there were bottle rockets. Most years.”

Damian tips his head forward so Dick knows he’s listening.

Dick wets his lips. “You could make ‘em out of old bottles and string. Easy entertainment for a loud kid. Then you’d fill them with water and too much air and they’d launch into the sky.”

“You’d do that for the Fourth of July?”

“Cheaper than fireworks.”

Damian considers this carefully, pressing the tips of his shoes into the picnic basket. “Was it important to you?” 

“Sure. At the time.” 

Damian shoots a glare at the reporters, who’ve inched closer since left unsupervised.

“Grayson,” he says. “Let’s go home and make bottle rockets.”

Dick grins cheekbone to cheekbone. “Seriously? You wanna ditch?”

Damian waves a hand toward the high schoolers. “I prefer my concerts professional. We will maintain the Wayne family’s charity work, but I think we’ve made enough of an appearance.”

“Not worried about missing out on a family tradition?” Dick asks, half-serious. He pokes at Damian’s ribcage.

“No,” Damian says. He meets Dick’s eyes. “There are other family traditions.”


	7. Shaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hi! If your still taking prompts, please, please, consider Damian observing Dick shave 🥺 or doing something kids tend to watch their parents do in hopes of doing it too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day!! Wild, right?

“Move,” Damian mumbles, shoving into Dick’s pajama’d side. “Make space.”

“You have your own bathroom,” Dick gripes. “Literally your very own!”

“Yours is bigger.” Damian sets his hairbrush on the sink and uncaps his toothpaste. “More efficient.”

“Well, that’s nonsense, but I guess there’s no getting rid of you now.” He pulls Damian against his side for a quick hug. “G’morning, by the way.”

“It’s one in the afternoon.”

“And we both just woke up. Your point?”

Damian pats Dick’s arm absently, blinking into the mirror with an adorably exhausted disgruntlement. Sleep goop gums the corner of his eye. Batman and Robin had a long night.

Dick gently detangles himself, then dampens a cloth in hot water. He rubs it over his face, thinking.

Thankfully, Damian’s stopped insisting he can get by with two hours of sleep a night. He’s been growing faster, too: a whole inch since he’d turned twelve. These could be related phenomena, sure—but Dick more suspects it has to do with living somewhere _safe_ for so long. Somewhere the boy’s brain can wind down.

Damian headbutts his arm. 

“What are you doing?” Dick asks, grabbing the shaving cream.

“We need to go to the arcade today.”

“We went yesterday.”

 _“Someone_ keeps topping my record. I will not _rest_ until I know who, Richard.”

Dick laughs, slapping the cream onto his face. He reaches for his straight razor to find it missing. 

“Why do you use this?” Damian asks, twirling the razor between his fingers. Dick experiences an incongruent moment of panic before he remembers who Damian _is._

“So I don’t look like you rescued me off the street.”

“I mean, why this method? It’s old-fashioned.”

“Bruce taught me that way. He was like that.” He holds out a hand for the razor, failing to look stern.

Damian glances up at Dick’s creamy face, then down again. Strangely hesitant, he gives it back.

Dick leans close toward the mirror, legs pressed against the sink. He applies light pressure, moving with the grain of his stubble. 

It takes him a moment to realize Damian is still standing there, watching him, toothbrush forgotten in his hand. 

“You’re gonna make me mess up,” he murmurs.

“I should hope not.” The boy keeps watching.

As Dick moves the razor under his chin, Damian’s tongue presses into his cheek. It’s a tic that Dick’s seen less and less as Damian’s gained confidence in his place in the household. Still: it comes out in times of heavy contemplation. Peaceful thought.

Then Damian hoists himself onto the sink counter, peering up at Dick’s face like the flecks of stubble in the cream contain the secrets of the universe.

“Okay,” Dick says, holding his jaw still. “That’s pretty close, there.”

“I’m studying, Richard. I need to know how it’s done. For the future.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Dick finishes the area by his left ear, then flicks cream into the sink. “When that distant time comes, a hundred years from now or whatever, I’ll teach you.”

Here’s the thing about a Damian who’s had two years to get comfortable: he flushes easily. And at the strangest times.

“Oh,” he says stiffly. His eyes go wide and reflective. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I will, though,” Dick hums. “So, compromise: give me like a foot of space so I can finish this, and you won’t have to worry about missing anything. You’re in good hands.”

“Okay,” Damian says. Predictably, he doesn’t move. His little fingers clutch the edges of the sink beneath him.

He waits until Dick’s done with the razor to lean forward and headbutt his chest.


	8. Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts:
> 
> anon: "something to do with either time travel or dimension travel (possibly with young justice universe or Dami meeting Dick as a child) THANK YOU!!!"
> 
> lifetimeoflaughter: "have you considered doing one on dick telling damian about the meaning of robin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who the heck knows how old Dick was when his parents died? Not DC!
> 
> Thank you for all of your lovely prompts! I have plenty for now. Some I'm still thinking on, some are really close to future 3:16 chapters, and some I'm really excited for but don't want to write until I've hit a few emotional turning points in the main story. I really appreciate everyone who sent one in!!

“You know what I don’t get?” says the boy in the green shorts. “How come you’re Robin, too?”

Damian bristles, grip tightening on his sword. “Careful, whelp. You may have Batman fooled, but I’m no easy mark. I’m here to watch you until we can confirm your identity. Not to _talk.”_

The boy bunches his face into an impatient frown. Damian makes the mistake of blinking, only to find that his charge has rotated his body on the Batcomputer chair until his legs dangle off the backrest. 

“That’s undignified,” Damian tells him.

He gets a raspberry in return.

The Batcave is a dusty mess of strange shapes under white cloth. Brown and Gordon abandoned it for a dingy basement called “Firewall” a few months ago. 

The imposter had spontaneously appeared in the Cave and immediately sent a distress call from the Batcomputer, using Grayson’s personal code. Ridiculous. Impossible. In Damian’s experience, clones are more common than time travellers. And clones can’t be trusted.

“How old are you?” the boy asks, squinting up at Damian with a focus that makes him uncomfortable. “You’re like...seven?”

“I’m _ten!_ ” Damian barks. Then he snaps his mouth shut. Stupid. Ten is an age that people look down on. 

“Ha! I’m _eleven_.” The imposter cocks his head. “If you’re ten, why do you have a sword?”

Said sword moves in a blur of silver; it settles at the boy’s throat. “Enough. No more talking.” 

The boy frowns. “Grown-up-me said you’re not allowed to fight me. Which, I’m still kind of confused that you want to, so—”

“You are not real,” Damian says, enunciating every word. “I don’t care what Gray...what Batman says. Your existence puts him at risk and we should drop you from a plane.”

“Risk? Why?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re here to replace him.”

The boy bursts out laughing.

“I’m serious! You’re a clone! Why else would—”

“That doesn’t happen.” The boy slides off the chair into a sort of backflip, landing on his feet. “Clones replacing people is, like, from horror movies. In real life, clones just show up after the person’s dead.”

“You’re wrong,” Damian mutters. “Ask me how I know.”

Something in his expression must get through the boy’s thick skull, because the smile falters. “Sorry. If you’re Robin, you’re trying to protect Batman. That’s good.”

Damian lowers the sword. “What do you mean ‘if’?”

He shrugs. “I still don’t...get it?”

“I am more than competent. Better than you ever were.” He catches himself. _“If_ you’re who you say you are.”

“That’s not it. I mean, Robin is like...my name. So how can you be Robin, too?”

“I thought you were claiming to be Richard Grayson.”

“I am! And Robin is what my mom called me.”

Damian’s next breath comes sharp. In his absent grip, the tip of the sword touches the floor with a _tck._

The boy fidgets, suddenly nervous—his head droops. “She died a couple years ago. She—well, you know that. I took the name to...you know. Remember.”

The Cave feels abruptly enormous. Huge and dark and empty around two small bodies that take up no space at all.

“I’m sorry,” Damian says, because it seems like the kind of thing Grayson would say.

After a moment, the boy smiles up at him through his bangs. “Thanks. You know, I think I get it.”

“Why I'm Robin?”

“Yeah. Grown-up-me adopted you, right?”

Damian flushes. He gives a tight nod.

“So he loves you,” young Grayson says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Damian wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. Wishes gravity would reverse and he’d fall up into the highest reaches of the Cave with the bats.

“Don’t say that,” he says quickly. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t even know me. You don’t know where I come from, or what I’ve done.”

Grayson frowns. “But adult-me does?”

“Yes. So you can’t claim that he—”

“He gave you _Robin,”_ Grayson says. He grins, soft and sure. “He gave you himself.”

Damian’s throat works to swallow. He drops the sword.

Grayson’s tongue pokes thoughtfully between his lips. His eyes sweep Damian up and down. Then, in an impulsive movement, he musses Damian’s hair. “Tell him I told you that.”

It takes Damian a couple of tries to say, “I will.”


	9. Sketchbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "If you can, could you do Damian letting Dick see his sketchbook for the first time?"

Dick’s getting up to deposit his orange juice glass in the sink when Damian says, _“Typical.”_

He glances back to find the boy right where he left him: seated at the kitchen table, sketchbook halfway-covert in his lap. The difference, now, is that Damian is glaring up at him with absolute force.

“You’re mad that I’m...clearing my dishes?” Dick says. “It’s not exactly gonna put Alfred out of work.”

“I’m _mad_ that you don’t know how to sit still. You move like you’re sitting on red-hot nails.”

“Not gonna ask why that’s your basis for comparison.” Dick leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “When you’re out of your PJs, meet me in the Bunker. I got a lead last night on the bead cult.”

“Working without me again,” Damian grumbles, snapping the sketchbook shut. 

The boy is halfway to his bedroom when Dick realizes. 

“Dames,” he calls, “were you trying to draw me?”

“No!” Damian says. The tips of his ears go red before he slams the door.

Dick leans over the Bunker computer, his hand at his chin. Then, remembering himself, he moves the hand out of the way. Holding his body as still as possible, he clicks through old news clippings.

“You can stop posing,” Damian says from the lab bench. “I’m not drawing you.”

“Just wanted to make it easier.”

“We are _working.”_

“Fair enough. Let me know when you get bored and you can draw me like one of your French girls.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Movie reference. Right. Mark that one down for cultural education night.”

Damian scoffs. “What makes you think I’d want to draw _you?”_

Dick shrugs. “I mean, there’s only so many models you can use, here. If you wanna draw Alfie first I won’t be offended.”

“You greatly overestimate your own charm.”

“You think I’m charming?” Dick beams. “Aw, shucks.”

Damian throws a pipette at him. 

That night, after a fruitless patrol puts them back to square one on the bead cult, Dick has trouble sleeping. He steals away to the sofa, to _Titanic_ on Blu-ray _,_ and to the sight of pre-dawn gray skies through the balcony door.

By now he’s unsurprised to see Damian’s door open—to see a boy in PJs pad down the hallway and sit primly on the sofa cushion beside him.

“Medicine or no?” Dick says.

Damian shakes his head, his sketchbook on his knee. Closed. Not a pencil in sight, colored or otherwise. 

Dick presses his lips together. He says, “Listen—about earlier today. Yesterday, I mean. You don’t have to draw me. I figure you know I was just messing around, but I want to be sure.”

Damian blinks up at him, a frown forming in the dip between his eyebrows. 

Dick adds, “I just mean, you always seem—protective. Of your art. It’s for you, and nobody else. And that’s good! Nobody should tell you what to draw.”

Damian’s spent years and years being told what to do and who to be. The last thing Dick wants to do is pile on, when art is one of the few outlets the boy has.

Slowly, Damian reaches for his sketchbook. Presses his hand to the cover. 

“You’ve never asked to see my drawings,” he says stiffly.

Dick’s stomach twists. “Did—did you want me to? Shit, I’m sorry Dames, I just figured—”

“Shut up,” Damian scoffs. “I’m saying: you were right. I appreciate that you...didn't ask. That you didn't make me—” He cuts off sharply, mouth just open, like what he’d wanted to say is too big to get out that way. 

“I think I get it,” Dick says carefully. “And you’re welcome. Everybody deserves their privacy.”

Damian nods. Then he opens the sketchbook and puts it on Dick’s lap.

On the page: Dick as Batman, the cowl down. A smile rounding his cheeks. A spark in his eyes.

“Dames,” Dick breathes. “Oh my god.”

Before he can take in the details, Damian turns the page. There’s Dick fiddling with his phone at breakfast, a forkful of eggs forgotten halfway to his mouth. Dick as Nightwing, suspended in flight between tall buildings.

The next page is full of Alfreds: studies of his nose, his brow line. The next: Stephanie, pulling down her bottom eyelid with a slender fingernail, her tongue sticking out. 

“You’ve _been_ drawing us,” Dick says, full of wonder. “You never stopped.”

“Tt. I wouldn’t say that.” After the slightest hesitation, Damian turns another page. Dick sees a pile of burning bodies, singed to blackness. A dead bird with a broken wing. A woman with her throat cut open.

Then another page: a hawk, majestic. Two mice, cuddling. A blue toy plane.

“You’re so _good,”_ Dick says, flabbergasted. “I mean, I figured you were. But this is really something else.”

“Obviously. I’ve been trained by master artists.” Damian’s head dips. “It’s—you don’t think it’s inappropriate?”

“What?”

The boy’s lips press closed. He turns to another page. Reveals a singed noose and a black knife dripping chunky viscera. 

Dick chooses his next words carefully. “I meant what I said. You draw for _you._ And if this”—he taps on the knife’s tip—“is what you need to get out of your head, then do it. Do it as much as you want.”

Damian swallows hard, his throat contracting. He leans against Dick’s arm.


	10. Line (Redux)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "okay so i was rereading [chapter 21] and noticed that this is the first time dick says 'i love you' to dami...would love to see damian's reaction to the first time it is said to him."
> 
> As a warning, this chapter is straight-up melodrama/angst and largely consists of a panic attack. Just remember they make up later!!

The room shrinks to twin points: Grayson’s hands closing into fists at his sides.

Damian’s heart slams once against his ribcage, a warning. He scrambles to his feet, a defensive posture against the far wall. There’s not enough space between them. The room is collapsing inward, and there’s not enough _space._

Options. Window: closed, not enough time to open it. Door—

Grayson freezes, strange murkiness passing over his eyes. He takes a step backward, no doubt readying an offensive stance. Judo, or baguazhang, or silat—a hanmi—

“I—I’m not attacking you,” Grayson says. “I would _never—”_

Damian wants to laugh, except he doesn’t know what sound would follow it.

“Stop pretending to be on my side!” He grasps the black knife’s handle and thinks: _liar._

He thinks: _traitor._

He thinks: _but you said—but you_ promised _me—_

He shakes his head. “I’ve been _listening,_ Grayson.” Every syllable is sharp against the skin of his throat. “You want me gone, too.”

“What? How can you say that?” He sounds so _innocent—_ wide-eyed and serious. A hero.

His hands were fists just a moment ago. Damian won’t be lied to anymore. 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You said he was right to be suspicious of me. You said you shouldn’t have made me Robin!” 

“I said I shouldn’t have taken it _away_ from him like that—”

“You said,” Damian says, and his voice _hurts—_ like the flu, like he’s four years old again, three days into mountaintop training, cold and sick, his mother warm in the cave below _—_ “that my place here would _never_ be secure. That it was good that I understood that.”

Grayson’s expression contorts, meaningless. Lies spill from his lips. Damian can’t take them in.

The room shrinks again until he’s seven years old, his arms chained, his cage hanging from a cliffside in South Africa, a loose sliver of wood from the floor his only hope. He’s running his bare and bloodied foot back and forth against it to work it free.

He hears himself shout something back at Grayson, still softer than South African waves in his own ears. He hefts the knife in his hand.

“I’m not sending you away,” Grayson says.

A sound wrenches itself from Damian. It feels like turning himself inside-out. The knife lands in the doorframe.

And just like that, Grayson leaves. He pulls the door shut behind him. He leaves Damian alone.

Damian sucks in a breath. He sinks down against the wall, the knife a phantom weight in his palm. His hands are cold. He hadn’t meant—he didn’t mean to—

He looks up at the white ceiling. He envisions patterns there: maps. Escape routes. Schematics. 

He’s attacked Batman. It doesn’t matter that his aim was sure; that he hadn’t struck to maim or kill. That he would never—that he _couldn’t—_

Grayson doesn’t want him. He _can’t_ want him, and Damian was a fool to believe he did.

He shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes. Heat rises up behind them.

There’s no time for this. There’s no time. _Think._ Enemies and options.

Enemies—

“Dames,” Grayson calls. From the sound of it, his back is to the door. “We don’t have to talk anymore. That’s okay. But I want you to understand—I never said those things.”

Lies. They _have_ to be lies. Think like an al Ghul: enemies. Name your _enemies._

“With Tim, I thought you were telling me you understood that your place here was secure. I never imagined—” He cuts off.

Could it be possible? Could Grayson have really meant—

No. Damian had heard him. No more lies. Name your _enemies._

Enemies: Mother and Grandfather.

Enemies: Batman’s rogues.

Enemies: Drake.

Enemies:

...He can’t think it. He can’t form the name and hold it in his head. Batman could be an enemy: vengeance, dark as a night without stars. But Grayson—

“I love you,” Grayson says through the door, and Damian holds very still.

“I need you to know that. Whatever you’re thinking. Whatever you’ve done.” A pause. “Can’t get rid of me, okay?”

He’s eight years old, and he’s helping Mother storm Cao Fen’s base, and they’ve overloaded the power grid until the cheap light bulbs shatter one by one, popping and crackling and showering glass shards on his head. Leaving him in darkness.

Grayson’s words feel like that: light bulbs shattering, one after another, in his chest. It doesn’t feel good. It leaves cuts he can’t understand. It snuffs out what light he had left to guide him.

He rests his head against his knees. He thinks: _liar._

He thinks: _how dare you, how_ dare _you—_

He thinks: _I could leave through the window._

He thinks: _w_ _hat if he means it?_

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t move for a long time. 

If he listens carefully, he can hear Grayson humming under his breath. An unfamiliar melody. Sweet enough to leave shards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick found saying "I love you" so easy that it didn't occur to him how big a deal it could be. For people who grew up neglected or abused, verbalized affection can feel uncomfortable or even painful to receive at first.


	11. Arcade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I’d love some more of Damian, Dick and Stephanie getting along. I love the way you have them all interact!"

“Cheese...Viking?” Steph cocks her head to one side, putting Dick in mind of a confused golden retriever. “I don’t get it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Damian huffs. He performs a complicated maneuver with the left joystick, sending his collection of buff Viking pixels shooting through an enemy fortress. “It requires an eye for quality.”

The arcade envelops them, all neon and noise and pizza grease smell. Children scream from the Jurassic Park game; goth teenagers go hard on the Silent Hill shooter. The row of Skee-Ball machines provides a steady drumbeat.

Steph catches Dick’s eye and grins. “You a gamer now, Damian? A...Damer, if you will?”

“Quiet, Brown. I’m about to beat the record.”

“Yeah, Steph,” Dick says seriously. “He’s about to beat the record.”

She punches him in the arm.

Damian mashes the L and R buttons until Dick fears for the skin of his thumbs. Then the screen lights up golden, and the Cheese Viking himself congratulates him on his victory. 

“Ha!” Damian reels back, smirking. Points of warmth rest high on his cheeks. “I’d like to see any one of these overindulged _children_ beat that score.”

“Yeah,” Steph says under her breath. “Filthy casuals, am I right?”

Dick elbows her, struggling to keep a straight face. Damian’s so obviously having fun; he’d hate to make the kid self-conscious. “Where to next, Dames?”

To his surprise, the boy points at Steph. “I challenge you.”

Steph raises an eyebrow. “To your cheese game?”

“You were the one who told me that I ‘owed you cheese.’ Isn’t that right?”

“Wow. You say that like it’s a burn or something.”

“Quiet! Accept the challenge!”

Steph’s lips purse thoughtfully. Her eyes move from Damian’s eager posture to the lurid orange of the Cheese Viking machine. 

Then she says, “Nah.” She turns on her heel and moves deeper into the arcade.

Dick bursts out laughing. Damian’s ears go red. “Coward! Where are you going?”

“Find out!” Steph calls, oversized windbreaker billowing behind her.

They find her at the DDR machines. 

“Now _this,”_ she says, spreading her arms wide, “is home.”

“No,” Damian says immediately.

“I didn’t even ask you yet.”

“Still no.”

“Now who’s the coward?”

 _“I’ll_ go a round with you,” Dick says, hopping over the bar. “I’ll warn you, though, it’s been years.”

Steph makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat. “Holy shit. This is gonna be _sweet."_

It turns out that agility-forward vigilante training is partially transferable to physical rhythm games. Still: by the time they’ve finished their first round, Dick’s lagging behind Steph’s score.

“Do you _practice?”_ he says, looking at their compared percentages with distress. “Is this the kind of thing you practice?”

“She’s using the bar to support her weight,” Damian says from behind him. “It allows her to move more quickly at the highest levels, meaning that— _Grayson!_ ”

Dick had turned to hoist Damian over the bar, onto his pad. “Think you can do better?”

“It’s about timing and precision,” Damian scowls. “Of course I can do better.”

Dick grins. He bows his way off the pad.

Steph’s answering grin is wicked. “Ready to get wrecked, little boy?”

“As if _you_ could beat _me_ at anything.”

Dick’s trained with Damian for long enough to see the subtle changes in his posture: the ready spring in his knees. The kid’ll play to win.

“I’ll play this ridiculous game with you on one condition,” Damian says.

Steph rests her hands on her hips. She gives an indulgent sigh. “Cheese Viking next?”

Damian’s grin is sharp. “Cheese Viking next.”

Steph shrugs. “Your funeral.”

She stomps on the pad, and the song begins.


	12. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from 3:16's comments: "If you're looking for any one shot ideas for Part 2 of 3:16, it might be cool to see what Damian said to Grace [the conservationist at the bird sanctuary] about Dick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place sometime before "Sketchbook," which marked the first time Damian showed Dick his drawings.

Nate is parking his dad’s Subaru in the sanctuary lot, clutching his first morning coffee like a lifeline, when he sees a boy in a red hoodie marching up to the double doors. He groans, dropping his forehead to the steering wheel.

He’d thought he’d been _so_ smart, scheduling all afternoon classes at Gotham U. Turns out, unpaid internships are a lot worse at the ass-crack of dawn. Especially since the weird brat his supervisor’s taking an inexplicable liking to makes it a point to show up before the sun’s even punched past the horizon.

Reluctantly, he pins on his nametag and slips inside.

His supervisor, Grace, is already knee-deep in her efforts to have a civil conversation with the kid. She beams down at him from behind her splintering desk. “Which birds are you going to see today, Bruce?”

“I don’t know,” the kid says with more sass than should be possible to contain in four vertical feet. “Obviously that’s up to the birds.”

“Good call. Don’t want to disturb them too much. Why don’t you go back to the sanctuary with Nate while I print a few things off for you? I was doing some research on your enrichment question from the other day and I think I found—”

“I _don’t_ need a babysitter,” Bruce sniffs. “He can stay here.”

Nate silently begs Grace to agree. No dice: her smile twitches, but only for a moment. “Sorry, bud. It’s policy. Kids need an escort.”

Bruce eyes Nate up and down with no sign of recognition. Like he’s _forgotten_ the time he’d cursed Nate out in three languages. Freaky kid. Definitely homeschooled.

Then Bruce looks back to Grace. “Can’t you come with us? There are glaring gaps in your avian knowledge, but you _must_ know more than Ferrari.”

“Esposito,” Nate says through gritted teeth. “It’s—never mind.”

Grace looks flattered. She grabs her purse. 

The three of them exit through the back door, into the forested area that makes up the sanctuary proper. Bruce makes a beeline for the left hand fork: a raised wooden path over an artificial swamp. He glares over his shoulder, as though forbidding them to follow.

“Why do you let him in so early?” Nate asks Grace under his breath.

“He’s...special,” Grace says. “Trust me.” 

Nate throws her a skeptical glance. Her expression is thoughtful—gazing through her gaudy glasses at some private inner landscape.

Nate doesn’t know Grace very well. She’d started after he did—just last month, after her predecessor had a sudden heart attack and quit for his health. She’d shown up with a perfect resume from some wildlife preservation task force in Florida she never talks about. Something about repeated failures to make real change.

Bruce pulls out a sketchbook, eyes trained on a canopy branch, and begins to draw.

Grace sidles closer. “Can I see your art?”

“No.”

“Okay. You should let somebody see it sometime, though—I bet it’s really good. Is there anybody at home who might want to put it up on the fridge?”

Bruce frowns. “I would kill him.”

Nate snorts into his coffee. This kid.

Grace’s smile goes strained. “Okay, well. I’ll leave you to it.”

Bruce doesn’t answer for a moment, caught up in some long pencil stroke. Maybe a wing or a beak. Then, like an afterthought, he says, “He’s more likely to frame it and put it on the living room wall. Idiot.”

“You mean your guardian?” Grace says carefully, resting a hand on the wooden guardrail. 

“He has no artistic sensibilities of his own. I’m not sure he knows the difference between a warm-up sketch and a piece of any value.”

“Maybe he thinks they’re _all_ valuable. You know, because you drew them.”

Bruce flips to a blank page and starts fresh. “Doubtful. He’s never seen my work.”

Grace glances back at Nate, who’s becoming interested despite himself. For all the disrespect spilling from the kid’s mouth, there’s less venom in his expression than there was even a moment ago. Like Grace had alighted on a safe conversational pathway totally by accident. Something the kid _likes_ to talk about.

“Uh,” Nate finds himself saying, “If you show him, he might surprise you. My middle school had this community garden, and I never told my dad about it, but it turns out he knew a lot about composts and fertilizers and stuff. Your dad—I mean, your, uh, guy—might know more than you think.”

Bruce wrinkles his nose. “Trust me. This is _not_ his skill set.” 

“What is?” Grace asks, leaning out over the guardrail. Her gaze, uncannily sharp, jumps from branch to branch. “What does he do?”

Bruce makes a rude clicking noise with his tongue, setting Nate’s teeth on edge. He says, “Slack off, mostly.”

Then, after a pause, he adds, “He...helps people. Rescue operations. He’s…” 

Bruce trails off for long enough to suggest he regrets speaking at all. This is, after all, the most words he’s ever strung together in front of them. 

It’s the best time of day for birdsong. Trills and chirps make up the morning, fluting in the dawnlight. 

Then Bruce says, “He’s brave, for a living. And kind.” He tears a page out of his sketchbook, crumples it, and sticks it in his pocket. “There are...things he doesn’t understand, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.”

“Like art, maybe?” Grace asks. She tucks a strand of dark red hair behind her ear.

Bruce shoots her a strange look—thoughtful. Then he marches further into the trees, sketchbook held tight to his side.


End file.
